Never Alone
by AngelWhisperings
Summary: After Sherlock's death John struggles with the emotions surrounding the loss of his best friend but feels in his heart that Sherlock will find a way to come back to him. (Rated T for language)


John stared down at the pale grey headstone. It's smooth surface dully reflected the slow setting sun. John stared at it hard, trying to see some semblance of reason behind the simplicity of it. So dull it seemed and so unfitting for the name it was representative of. So inferior that John had to suppress the desire to kick it with all of his might.

_You'll only make a fool of yourself. Reactions out of anger are petty things John._ The sardonic condescending voice came to him, so fresh in his mind that it was like Sherlock was there beside him now. He clung to the voice in his head, ignoring the fact that he was probably on the verge of complete insanity. In fact, Sherlock would probably be making some comment questioning his sanity at this very moment. Insulting his intelligence with that sarcastic smile that was both mind blowingly irritating and endearing all at once.

John sighed out through his mouth, one long low breath; the kind learned from years at war. And that was his ordeal now. It was very much like John had been thrust once more into Afghanistan with dying men crying out around him. It used to be so easy to take a deep breath and steel himself away from their pain to do what needed to be done. But now, now that the war was inside him, he could find no such calm. His thoughts were erratic, chaotic. Completely and overwhelmingly out of line.

How could the man who had solved some of the greatest mysteries in Britain be reduced to a mound of flesh buried six feet under the earth with nothing more than a name on a shitty rock to stand for him? John's face beat red with the injustice of it all.

A paper blew past him in the distance and his mind was drawn back to the weeks headline news. Practically all of Britain was in uproar about the scandal. The great detective Sherlock proved a fraud. Everything made up into a large sack of lies, paid off in large sums of money. Though he had heard the words from Sherlock's own mouth and seen him up on that ledge, John still could not bring himself to believe it.

The idea that the man he had been through so much with was a fraud was a thought he could not bear to entertain even for a moment. There was no way in the world that Sherlock was that kind of man. It wasn't just a matter of the brilliance he had observed from Sherlock first hand. It was the feeling and the passion behind it. A man who lied would not have acted so often and so rashly to defend him.

All John could think of now as he read the name of his beloved friend was why this had happened at all. Moriarty had been found dead on the rooftop, a bullet had blown up through his mouth tearing his features to shreds. John knew from basic medical deductions that Moriarty had probably blown his own head off. But his very presence on the rooftop was enough evidence for John. He surely had had something to do with Sherlock's suicide. What still plagued him was what exactly? He had gone over the entire thing in his head a thousand times. Moriarty had held a gun to Sherlock's back, Moriarty had blackmailed him in some way, Moriarty… Moriarty… His thoughts trailed off. Surely the man was to blame for Sherlock's death but HOW?

_ Think John. Don't be so simple, really THINK_.And John tried, tried harder than he ever had. He thought back to Sherlock's voice on the phone. It was the voice of a man emotionally dying inside. It was true, Sherlock's agonizing voice was the worst thing he had ever heard in his life. His voice so broken as he had told him that it all never happened. His instant thought was that it was guilt. But now he knew Sherlock far too well. It wasn't guilt, no. It was sorrow. Complete heartbroken sorrow. No, Sherlock had been lying to him when he died. His "note" was not to justify his suicide, it was to leave John with some semblance of… What exactly?

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as the emotions overcame him. He had never been so frustrated in his life. He blinked back the tears that threatened to come spilling down the sides of his face. He stared at the headstone again, and in that moment, a whisper of a thought came to him. A hope and a desire he had not allowed himself to even think of. Sherlock… Alive. It wormed it's way through the walls of his mind and anchored itself so far in his head he had no hope of pulling it out. His eyes cleared and he read Sherlock's name over and over in his head. The flame lit itself in his numb body and he felt life begin to slowly settle in around him again.

He glanced around and stuck his hands into his pockets. Quietly he spoke to Sherlock. Told him he believed in him, knew he wasn't a fraud, and told him he needed him back. And finally, with all the strength he had he wished aloud for the thing he wanted most.

"Sherlock… If you could do one thing. Just… Can you not be dead?" The words sounded all wrong and flat in his ear but the feelings inside were bubbling to a climax. He clung to those words. Clung to the hope that the man he had come to love so much somehow wasn't dead. If anyone could do it, surely it was Sherlock. Sherlock, who had never let him down, Sherlock who had solved the hardest most perplexing crimes like it was childs' play, Sherlock who had saved John too many times to count from villains and from himself. He turned away from the grave and under his breath he mouthed the precious name "Sherlock…"

He let it float out into the afternoon air. Knowing that somehow, somewhere, if Sherlock was alive, he would find a way to come back to him. He bowed gis head briefly and wandered back through the cemetary the way he had come with newfound hope in his heart.

And watching him as he went, a quiet voice whispered back. A sentiment, an acknowledgement. A promise. _I am always with you._ "John Watson."


End file.
